My Daughter Called Before Her Mother Could Finish The Story

I did not answer Celia's threat.

I saved both messages, with the times showing, and sent them to Mara. Then I put my phone face down and worked through a scene in which two brothers could not say goodbye.

There were four seconds of silence between their lines.

I marked [hold].

For once, I needed the note more than the actors did.

Leah called the next morning.

"Are you moving away?"

"No."

"Mom said you were making plans without us."

I looked at the couch blanket around my legs.

"I'm at home. I have a matinee Saturday. I can still come look at that car Sunday."

"She said you chose work."

My thumb found the side of my index finger.

I wanted to send her everything. The false signature. The second account. Twenty-four years of small rules that had once looked like care.

Instead, I asked, "Do you want to hear what has actually changed?"

"Yes."

"Your mother filed for divorce. I didn't know until the papers came. We have money questions to settle. I have a lawyer helping me. I'm still your dad. None of that is a job you need to do."

"Did you leave?"

"No. If I change addresses, you'll hear it from me."

She breathed into the phone.

"Okay. Send me your Saturday schedule."

I did. I kept the promise about Sunday, too.

The car had a bad tire and a heater that smelled like toast. We passed on it, ate soup near her apartment, and talked about her class on soil. She had learned that the ground kept records of floods.

I liked that more than I could explain.

When I got home, Celia had printed a moving estimate.

"You need room to think," she said.

"I can think here."

"You're making the house tense."

"We can discuss housing through our lawyers."

She circled a date on her calendar so hard the paper tore.

Over the next three weeks, my life became two kinds of waiting. At work, I waited for an actor's breath. Away from work, I waited for records.

Mara answered the divorce filing. She requested full financial records and asked the court to stop either of us from moving disputed business money. Celia's lawyer agreed to a temporary hold on the second account while the issue was heard.

Mara also filed a separate civil case against Rhys and Hemline.

"Your divorce judge can deal with your marriage," she said. "Recovering money from his company needs its own path. We'll keep the two accountings consistent."

I paid her first $2,500 bill from savings I had disclosed.

My hand shook as I wrote the check.

Nandita saw me staring at the copy.

"Would you like a minute?"

"I'd like the last six months back."

"I can't give you those. I can give you a clear ledger."

She gave me a clean copy, not just a picture on her screen. I took it home in a folder that fit inside my coat. For days, I checked that it was still there before leaving any room.

She turned her monitor toward me.

Cedar Lantern had paid Hemline $19,746.20. The Tin Finch had paid $16,883.90. A Map of Rain had paid $11,982.30.

The total was $48,612.40.

My $184.73 was outside that total. It had come from a separate order for new cues, entered under my old payment instructions.

"A clerk used the original vendor record," Nandita said. "That's why you saw it."

The small payment had not been guilt or a warning. It had been an ordinary person choosing the right line on a screen.

I sat with that for a while.

The second account's records arrived through the lawyers on a wet Tuesday. Feldman Touring Services was Celia's company. Its bank paperwork named her as the sole owner and signer. My surname had done the rest of the work.

"Did she report it on her financial statement?" I asked.

Mara shook her head.

The $36,000 from Hemline had arrived on May 7. Two days later, $24,000 had left. The remaining $12,000 was still there, now covered by the temporary hold.

"Where did the twenty-four go?"

Nandita enlarged the transfer line.

TURNSTITCH ROAD SERVICES. VENDOR SECURITY.

"Another wardrobe company?"

"Let's get the ownership record before we decide."

I liked her for that. Each time I reached for a guess, she handed me a fact to find instead.

That evening, Celia knocked on my workroom door.

"Rhys says you're dragging innocent productions into this."

"Their payments are in the records."

"You'll lose work. This business is small."

It was small. I knew every quiet booth, every loose cable, every manager who forgot to save me a sightline.

"Then they can see how I handle it," I said.

At 8:16, Nandita called.

"Turnstitch belongs to Rhys," she said. "And your money has already been booked onto another tour."